Late autumn I meet you
near the promenade. There's always something tangible in the air
when one is out so late with loved ones. I speak of more than
fireflies, though they too bear witness to your feverish confessions.

Under bare trees you

Say you wish you were a
flit.

I wish you were, too.

The stone bench, cool
beneath our thighs. Light mist clings in droplets to your eyelashes;
I cannot stop looking. Your beautiful eyes, green as the ocean, as
the leaves in spring, as the frog's pond. You cannot look at
anything. Perhaps shame or guilt turns your head. There is nothing
shameful in wanting what you do not have. Everyone covets. Crickets
serenade you as you stand.

I sit abandoned,

In company of
fireflies,

Watching you retreat.

Night drags on, there
was so much I wished to say. Normality is overrated, and even if
it's not, change is good, too. The flower blossoms, and still it
is true to itself. You simply blossom differently. I will love you
regardless. My thighs are getting cold; the chill gives them
gooseflesh. I pluck the petals from roses meant for you: you love
me, you love me not… Eventually, exhausted, I collapse and dream
of a world in which everything is as it should be. My visions are
perfect.

Silently I cry

To whoever will listen:

Please let her be
whole.

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